Scattered
by SixthSeason
Summary: Where Kirkwall finds peace, Emery Hawke does not. The battle has ended, but his heart and mind are in disquiet as he draws the attention of nameless groups demanding to know about the Champion. Not wanting to risk another conflict by getting involved, he all but withdraws from the public eye to prepare himself for what will come next. (Post Act 3. Hints of Fenris x Hawke)
1. Prolouge

_Dragon Age and its characters belong to BioWare. Emery Hawke belongs to me_

* * *

><p>"<em>Have you seen any movement from within?" <em>

"_No, Ser. Not in the past several days. Are you certain he's still here"_

"_I am. Give it a few more days. Serah Hawke will have to come out sometime."_

"_In the meantime, ser?"_

"_Look for his companions and get answers."_

"_And if they don't know anything?"_

"_They __**will **__know."_

Although the clanking of heavy armor faded into the distance, Emery Hawke waited a near half-hour before he moved away from his bedroom window, taking care as to not to disturb the curtains. It'd been nearing two weeks since he'd retreated into the estate.

After the the Chantry's destruction, and the battle between the Templars and Circle Mages, word spread at a speed that would have put Varric to shame. No matter what conspiracy theories the public cooked up, no matter how many details were omitted or added, no matter the length of the story, one name always managed to pass their lips: Hawke.

It didn't end by word of mouth, though. Letters upon letters would be sent to the Hawke Estate in piles that came up to his knees. Some were admiration letters. Some were inquiring ones. Some would go on a page and a half length of how they wanted to meet him. Some were demands to tell the story from the Champion's point of view. Some were death threats. And the rest were invitations of groups apparently so secretive; they couldn't even bother to sign their own names. He'd stopped answering the letters late last week, hoping they'd take a hint that he clearly wasn't interested in hearing whatever they had to say. They stopped altogether, thank the Maker, but they groups themselves had started to take place of the letters. They'd mill around his house in the darkening of the day, pounding on his door or trying to peek in through the windows. They even went so far as to try to go to Aveline for a warrant to enter Hawke's home, which the Guard-Captain quickly shot down.

They had the patience of the Divine herself, waiting hours for anything from within. Movement, noise, light, anything that would confirm their suspicions that Hawke was within. It had gotten to the point where Emery was forced to leave the fireplace dark and candles unlit. He'd avoided going towards windows and doors, and had to tip-toe around his home to avoid detection.

Which he was doing now. Hand on the banister, he descended the stairs on the balls of him feet, taking care as to not miss a step and go careening head first into the wall as he had in his first few days of hiding. If he could recall, the dent was still there. He could hear it now; Isabela and Varric slapping their hands on their thighs and borderline choking on their drinks as they over-dramatized the entire situation in the form of a story. Merrill, Maker bless her, would more than likely be fussing over him, fingers ruffling through his hair checking for injuries. Aveline would probably give an off-handed comment on how she'd thought rouges were far less clumsier than they let on. And knowing Fenris, he'd probably cut in on how something similar happened to him on his first few nights in the new mansion, not once, but multiple times. In turn, that would only make Isabela and Varric laugh harder. The dwarf would wheeze in that way of his that never failed to make Emery laugh, and soon he'd join in, head buried in him arms on the table and snorting loudly as he laughed. And soon, the whole table would be in borderline hysterics at Emery's snorting laughter.

He'd stopped on the landing and placed a hand on the wall to feel around for the dent. Sure enough, it was there, and the fantasy played in his mind of telling his friends about this whole fiasco. It made his chest ache a little; vanishing off the streets of Hightown completely without so much as a notice to his friends. They'd even come by once or twice, but he could not risk shattering the facade that he wasn't occupying the house. But he couldn't hide forever, either. One way or another, he would be found by these groups. he didn't know who they were or what they wanted, but he was through associating himself with any other groups. Last time he'd picked a side, it resulted in a war in the streets of Kirkwall, ultimately ending the death of both leaders of the opposing groups. What would getting involved again this time warrant? More deaths? Perhaps this time of those he held dear?

Taking his hand off the wall, he continued down the stairs and headed over to the library, where he shut the door behind hem and lit a lone candle on the desk. Perhaps he was just being childish, not wanting to take responsibility for his actions. Or perhaps he was merely trying to escape being the center of attention. Perhaps he was being just plain paranoid. Whatever the case, the answer was clear and his decision had been made:

he had to leave Kirkwall. Leave the Free Marches.

In time, his name and face would be but a passing memory if he played his cards right. But one thing and one thing only was on his mind; he wasn't going to get involved with anyone else. It killed hem watching his friends-who had become his second family after the loss of his own-charge into battle, getting wounded and risking their own lives. To have that happen again, and possibly have to take into account that they might not be so lucky next time shook him to the core. If these groups were so persistent, they'd follow him out of the Free Marches. Away from his friends. At least that way, he wouldn't risk them being dragged into any other conflicts.

But he'd be lying if he said his heart didn't ache at the thought of leaving them behind.

He would say goodbye to them, of course. But not in person. No matter his reasons, chances are that they would try and talk him out of his decision. But by letter….Maker, he felt so cowardly, saying goodbye to those he held dear via letter because he was too afraid to encounter them in person. But whatever he did from here on out was out of love for his friends. It was for their protection and well-being. Gathering up some old parchment and a few envelopes near the desk, he shoved the books from off the desk to make room. Taking the big red chair from in front of the fireplace, he pushed it over to the desk and took a seat, snatching the first piece of parchment from the top of the messy pile and setting it down. For a few moments he sat there, mentally making a list of of who he would write to in order. Fenris would have to be last, for he had much to tell him. Reaching for the quill in the inkwell, he tapped the edge of it on the lip of the well and pressed the tip of it to the paper. In short, compact letters, he wrote at the top of the page:

**_ Varric_**


	2. First Letter: To Varric

"They keep that charred husk of the Knight-Commander in the Viscount's office, you know. The Champion carried that thing up two flights of stairs to set it on the desk. Stone-faced, the Champion turns to me and says 'A little present-and a reminder-to the new Viscount what happens when you step out of line in _my _city.'"

A collective gasp of awe went up around the small group of regular patrons of the bar who had congregated in Varric's room for their daily dose of the dwarf's stories. Leaning back in his chair, he tented his fingers together and smiled a shit-eating grin as the patrons conversed excitedly with each other for a few moments before looking back to Varric. "Oi, what about the First Enchanter? Didn't he become one of them-whaddya call it?" One of the older patrons scratched his mustache in thought.

"Abominations?" Someone finished.

"Yeah, yeah! That! Did the Champion do anythin' with-with him?"

"Hmh…" He hummed, tapping a gloved finger against a temple in feigned thought. "Let's just say if you ever visit the Circle, don't look up towards the ceiling if you got a weak stomach. And if you _**do **_look up, keep your mouth closed. Don't want the taste blood or rotting flesh on your tongue, do you?"

"Varric, that's _**disgusting!" **_Another patron cried out.

Laughing richly at the sight of the group blanching collectively, he shook his head and looked each of the now pale-faced patrons in the eye. "Come on, I'm just shitting you! Spot's not _**that **_ruthless! No one could pay him enough sovereigns to touch that thing, let alone pick it up!"

The patrons sighed in relief, but some still retained the paleness. Again, Varric laughed. "Are all humans so gullible? I could tell you that Spot crawled out of a rock and gave birth to Andraste's reincarnation or something and you'd believe me!"

"We can't help it! You always looked so damned serious when you tell your stories, dwarf!"

"Aye." Another patron chimed in. "One of these days, your story telling is gonna get you in trouble."

"Already has, messere." He said with a fond smile. "Now go get yourselves a drink or two. You all look like Qunari with how grey your skin's gotten."

One by one, the patrons left Varric to his room, and his thoughts. His stories had gotten more and more outrageous as time went on. At the back of his mind, he'd hoped to create one so outrageous it would coax Hawke out of his home. He could picture it now; he'd be storming up the stairs to his suite, dark skin sporting an angry flush redder than his hair as he'd repeat the story he heard about her word for word and demand to know what was going through his mind when he spread that story. He'd buy him a drink to calm Hawke down , and their night would end with Varric escorting the intoxicated Champion back home, where he would bid him goodnight with a drunken promise to tear Bianca off his back and shoot him through the chest if the stories got out of control again. A promise that would never be fulfilled, of course. Hawke wasn't exactly gifted in the way of threats. He wouldn't mind hearing one of those empty threats now. Hell, he wouldn't mind hearing his _voice. _Nearly a half-month since things had settled down, and not hide nor hair of the Champion. Even Broody hadn't heard anything from him, and that was saying something.

Perhaps he had her own reasons for becoming a recluse, but something- _anything _from him would be welcomed at this point. All this worrying and wondering wasn't doing his health any better.

"Ser Tethras?" One of the barmaids peeked into his room.

"He's out, but _Varric _is in." He corrected as he looked up from the table. Quickly scurrying over to the table, the barmaid grabbed one of the dwarf's hands and pressed an envelope face-down into his palm.

"Seeing Spots." She whispered into his ear before hustling out of the room, leaving Varric wide-eyed and slack- jawed. 'Seeing Spots'. It was a silly little code that Varric had made up Ancestors-know-how-long-ago in reference to Hawke's freckles. Hawke liked the idea of having something so secretive, and often used it when passing along letters or messages that were from him to out any phonies. If that was the case, then this obviously was genuine.

He reaches for the dagger on his hip and uses the blade to open the envelope. Sure enough, that was his short, squashed handwriting. Easing back in his chair a bit, he holds the letter just under the table, eyes hastily trailing over the paper in hopes to find an explanation or something.

_**Varric,**_

_**I'm going to be pretty concise in this letter, but that's just how you like things, isn't it? Sweet and to the point? Perhaps your stories should take on a similar style instead of weighing it down with false details and over-exaggerations. Either way, I do like hearing them. So long as they don't involve me doing inhumane things to my 'enemies'. You know me. I'm not like that.**_

_**You've come by the estate recently, haven't you? You've seen all those letters piling up? Most of them are from….groups. I don't even know who they where they hail or what they stand for. All they want to do is 'speak with me'. In a few of their letters, they go so far as to tell me to avoid other groups. If they've heard any of your stories, they should damn well know by now that me taking sides is the worst possible thing I could ever have done, as it ended in a war in the middle of Kirkwall's streets. I'm done taking sides and stirring up a conflict that have cost so many their lives.**_

_**What I'm trying to say is that I'm leaving Kirkwall. And possibly the Free Marches. With any luck, these groups will follow and make things a bit more peaceful with them chasing after me. Last thing I want is for you and the rest to get involved on my behalf. I think you all have done that enough. I don't know where I'll be by the time you receive this letter, but I wish us both luck in the future.**_

_**This is my goodbye, Varric. And my gratitude. Hopefully I'll hear one of your stories wherever I end up._** I know it's an impossible request, but all I ask is that you try to keep me true to canon.**_ **_

_**Farewell**_

_**-Emery"Spot" Hawke**_

The always-present mirth in his eyes had faded as his eyes reached the bottom of the page. Setting the letter on the table, he rested an elbow on the armrest and massaged his temples as he glanced at the letter. Not even he was prepared for this ending. The Champion of Kirkwall, slipping out of the city like an unwelcom guest at a party. And all for what? A gut feeling that he was endangering them?

Sighing loudly, he folds his hands together and rests his chin on them, reading the letter over and over. "I was hoping you'd go out with a bigger bang than that, Spot." He murmured into his laced fingers. One of these days, they would have to part ways. But like _this-_it left a bad taste in his mouth. Cliche, but if he had known that the battle would be the last time he'd seen his friend-

The letter is folded up and tucked away in one of his many coat pockets. Gathering up Bianca, he heads downstairs to the bar. Taking a nearby tankard off the table, he slams it down a few times until every conscious patron had their head turned in his direction.

"Show of hands." Varric called out. "How many of you have heard about the Champion of Kirkwall's story?"

A good portion of the bar raised their hands.

"Impressive. But do you know the _whole _story? Start to finish, cover to cover? Before the battle? Before the Champion drove out the Qunari? Do you know who the Champion was?"

Nearly all the hands in the bar went down, save one, and that was Varric's own hand, raised high in the air. "Then grab yourselves a drink and gather around. This is one story I'll never tire of telling." He'd tell it as many times as need be or as was demanded of him. He owed that much to Hawke. To ensure that his name, face, or memory wouldn't die out in his mind, or the minds of every sodding person in Kirkwall.

"But first-" Varric lifted the tankard as high as he could into the air, and soon countless tankards joined his as he shouted out, "-to the Champion of Kirkwall!"


End file.
